The Maids' Quarters underwent an instantaneous atmospheric transmutation; when the stranger's eyelids retracted, the air within the chamber did not merely shift in temperature or pressure—it froze into a crystalline stasis of absolute dread. The biological vessel occupying the bed remained physically identical to the confused cultivator who had plummeted from the firmament, and it bore the likeness of the paranoid lunatic who had screamed at the heavens, yet the consciousness now piloting the flesh was an entity of an entirely divergent taxonomy. His ocular gaze was ancient, holding the gravitational weight of extinguishing galaxies, and his posture, even while supine, exuded a natural, terrifying regality that demanded obeisance from the very molecules of the room. His expression was utterly devoid of the fluctuations of human sentiment—cold, calculating, and absolute.
"He"—the primordial entity now inhabiting the somatic shell—elevated his torso with deliberate slowness, regarding his own phalanges not with the confusion of amnesia, but with the critical, analyzing stare of a craftsman inspecting a tool. "So, I have awakened," he whispered, his vocal cadence altered to a rhythmic and archaic meter that bore no resemblance to Xan Li Fang's vernacular. He sealed his eyes for a fleeting moment, processing the grand betrayal that had precipitated his current predicament. "The Archangel, King of Angels... I never hypothesized that he would execute such treachery against me," he mused, a flicker of disappointment traversing his visage. "Or... perhaps Father personally mandated the execution of this gambit?" He permitted the interrogation to hang in the silent air before shaking his head with dismissive finality. "It is inconsequential; my antecedent identity and the specific mechanics of the catastrophe are problems relegated to a future epoch. The immediate imperative is to define my current essence."
He didve into the labyrinth of his own psyche, confronting the chaotic tempest of memories that had nearly fractured the previous consciousness into insanity, and began to cross-reference his own divine perspective with the fragmented mnemonic data residing in the neural pathways. "These memories..." he murmured, skepticism coloring his tone. "Do they even belong to my existence?" He sifted through the psychic noise until his metaphysical hand grasped the memories of a specific youth: images of a boy with golden hair gazing at a woman with kind, sorrowful eyes; the shame of poverty; the loyalty of a beast named Masterpiece. The entity paused, lingering on these fragments and feeling the raw, visceral human sorrow embedded within them—the struggle, the destitution, the affection, and the agony of Xan Li Fang. "Intriguing," the entity whispered. For the first time in eons, a trace of empathy softened his ancient gaze, for he felt a strange, inexplicable resonance with this young man's tragic, fragile, yet tenacious existence.
"I am amenable to the concession... I am human," he decided with the weight of a divine decree. He then summoned the memories of the other five existences absorbed from the tomb, reviewing them dispassionately to extract their martial skills and experiential wisdom while ruthlessly discarding their emotional baggage. "Excessive interference," he concluded. "If I retain these superfluous recollections, they will disrupt the purity of my cultivation; I require a singular vessel, a singular identity." He solidified his choice: he would not be the God who fell from the sky, nor the corpses from the tomb; he would be Xan Li Fang. He would utilize this boy's identity as the fundamental bedrock, weaving the technical knowledge of the other lives and his own divine essence into a single, cohesive persona.
He raised his hand, his fingers dancing to form a complex, forbidden seal; although his true nomenclature remained obscured by the veil of amnesia, the mechanics of the Magic of Memory remained lucid. "I shall excise the remainder; only the essential components shall endure." His lips moved, enunciating a spell in a dialect forfeited to the sands of time. "Ausuha mikaru mashata..." HUMMM. A soft, invisible wave rippled through his cerebral cortex, silencing the chaotic voices, purging the conflicting identities, and reorganizing the mnemonic data into a flawless system with Xan Li Fang at the helm. However, the physiological strain of the incantation was immense, for a mortal body could not sustain the expenditure of such profound soul force without repercussion. As the final syllable evaporated from his lips, the luminescence in his eyes extinguished, and the ancient entity receded deep into the subconscious, leaving the vessel empty and peaceful once more. He collapsed back onto the pillow, surrendering to unconsciousness.
Moments later, the door creaked open as Safira, the young maid, hurried back into the room, followed closely by Lady Agnes; Safira had departed only minutes prior to report the awakening of the "guest." They rushed to the bedside, anxiety evident in their movements. "He... he was exhibiting mobility, My Lady," Safira whispered, confusion clouding her features. "I solemnly swear, his eyes were open." Lady Agnes gazed down at the stranger, observing that he lay in perfect stillness, his respiration shallow and rhythmic, his visage relaxed and devoid of the madness or the ancient power that had just saturated the chamber. "He is deep in slumber," Agnes observed, placing a diagnostic hand upon his forehead. "His fever has broken, and his internal energy appears... stabilized; perhaps he roused for a fleeting moment and succumbed to exhaustion." She adjusted the blanket over him. "Let him rest; whatever storm was raging inside him... it appears to have dissipated." Unbeknownst to them, the storm had not dissipated; it had merely been organized.
"He" was intimately acquainted with the treacherous nature of the Magic of Memory; it was a blade that cut both ways, capable of healing a fractured psyche or severing the tether to reality permanently. Yet, despite the inherent peril, the entity harbored a desperate imperative to be liberated from the crushing weight of his divine baggage. He required a narrative that would allow him to function within this mortal coil without succumbing to the paralysis of existential dread. However, he retained specific, immutable details regarding his true essence, deftly suturing them into the fabric of Xan Li Fang's existing biography to create a seamless, albeit fabricated, tapestry.
According to the new architectural blueprint of his soul, the narrative was restructured thus: he was indeed a transmigrator, a soul drifting from a distant, alien world known as Earth to this magical realm. In that previous existence, he was not merely a survivor of the Wastelands, but a paragon—a Hero who had saved his world from apocalyptical ruin. Yet, as is the tragic trajectory of all great saviors, he had been betrayed; his enemies, fearful of his ascendant power, had united to seal him away in an eternal prison, forcing him into a slumber that spanned eons. Now, he had shattered that seal, returning to claim his life...
But here, the Entity inserted the most crucial, protective clause of the entire fabrication. He implanted a false memory, absolute and unshakeable: His enemies were dead. Time had eroded them. The civilizations that had betrayed him had turned to dust. This was a calculated necessity; if the new persona believed his tormentors were still alive, he would be consumed by the fires of vengeance, wasting his second life chasing ghosts across the dimensions. By declaring them dead, "He" granted Xan Li Fang the ultimate gift—freedom from the past. The insidious nature of memory magic dictates that for the practitioner who inflicts it upon themselves, the fabrication obliterates the objective truth; what remains in the memory is not what happened, but what was written . Whether true or false, to the new Xan Li Fang, this story would be as real as the blood in his veins.
As the spell settled, the ancient entity whispered his final edict into the void of his own mind. "The past is a finished book. The enemies are ash. You are the Hero who returned. You are Xan Li Fang." With the script finalized and the ink of the soul dry, the divine consciousness receded into the abyss, allowing the new, synthesized identity to take root in the silence of the subconscious.